Why’s this happening? Why am I being chased through a bayou? How did I end up ankle-deep in a foreboding swamp that is inundated with what first appears to be blood but upon closer inspection, is actually salsa? And no matter how hard I try; little forward progress is made. My legs aren’t responding to my panicked demands. Lifting my right foot, I see an oversized boot. Where are my Sketchers?

Growing concerned, I glance behind me. A shrouded figure seemingly floats unimpeded over the red quagmire. Pending doom sets in as the gap closes. Looking for help, I recognize my eighth-grade Spanish teacher among the crowd of gawkers to my left. Why is Mrs. Hernandez shaking her head while holding a gato in her arms? I try screaming for help but can’t formulate words. The ominous presence now looms over me. I frantically gesture for mercy then cower as an arm extends towards my head.

Waking up, I’m sweating. My legs are cocooned in the top sheet. Lying there, reality comes into focus. I take a moment to slow my heart rate. Sooooo, now let’s add enchiladas to the long list of food I can’t eat after 9 p.m.

People want a life

with imagery similar

to that of their dreams.

They wish to replace

the everyday, mundane grind

with nocturnal views.

How do they transfer

all of what slumber concocts

to their waking hours?

The answer’s easy

but hard to initiate -

Just get out of bed.

This stops the dreaming

and starts the changes needed

so you’ll feel alive.

Opening your eyes,

let’s you see the wonderment

that’s always been there.

That which can be dreamt

pales when it’s compared to

what can be achieved.

Life has vibrancy,

beyond imagination,

if you go live it.

The unknown has been a constant source of fear for me. My mind generates varying storylines involving “what if” tangents when I don’t have a clear vision of what’s going to happen. I lean towards pragmatic when dealing with the future by making informed decisions based on past data with the hope it results in happiness. And since Life requires swinging at all its pitches, even the curve balls thrown from time to time, I’m always looking to steal a sign from the first base coach to increase my chances for a hit.

But there are situations that can’t be prepared for by using the knowledge gained from those who’ve already experienced it. Death falls into this category. “What happens when we die?” is a speculative question asked by those who are alive that can only be answered by those who are deceased. And the dead aren’t talking.

That’s why I’m formulating a preemptive approach to kicking the bucket utilizing the limited information gathered from my time spent so far on our glorious planet. This is the rationale for the two explicit instructions I left to the executor of my estate regarding my funeral arrangements.

First, I am to be buried in modest business attire and comfortable shoes with the New World Translation of the Holy Scripture Bible in one hand and a Watchtower pamphlet in the other. This ensemble is a strategic move using other people’s prejudices to my advantage. It’s a last-ditch attempt to nudge redemption in my favor on the outside chance I’m standing at Hades’ threshold after I pass.

Because, if it’s not Heaven’s door that I’m knock, knock, knockin’ on, I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent admission to a neighborhood eternally consumed by fire and brimstone. I’d favor not residing in a community ruled by a satanic HOA requiring the successful rolling of a stone to the top of a hill before I can paint my house any color other than perdition red.

Successfully impersonating a Jehovah Witness might be my ticket out of Gehenna. Because when the Grim Reaper swings open the portal to Hell in response to my incessant rapping, he (or she, don’t want to risk insulting the Angel of Death by misgendering) will see my literature and assume the basis for my visit involves evangelical overtones. Instinctively, this will elicit the curt response of, “I’m not interested” followed by an unrestrained shutting of the door in my face. Just like what’s been executed thousands of times previously by inconvenienced homeowners throughout history.

This burial outfit buys me additional, precious time to avoid Beelzebub’s Welcome Wagon. Getting a delay, even for a few moments, is a last-ditch effort to prove my worthiness. Any spare minutes I get will be used for an appeal to a higher authority. Hopefully, my desire to dodge the Devil will garner a favor from the Man Above, who will appreciate the effort I put forth and then reward me with a Speed Pass to the Pearly Gates.

If I’m fortunate enough to end up in Heaven in the first place, then I’ll nonchalantly tuck the brochure in my back pocket and patiently await St. Peter’s roll call. Either way, wherever I end up, I will finally know what happens when you stand at Death’s door.

The second directive for my memorial is that my coffin has a split lid so it can be an open casket service. But there’s one precondition. While I’m lying in state, the lid over the lower portion of my body is raised while the upper section over my torso remains closed. This has no benefit for me in the afterlife. It’s solely for those who have gathered to say farewell. This configuration would catch everyone off-guard and instill some levity in an otherwise somber occasion.

I accept that the circumstances I went through after dying cannot be relayed the living. But maybe just viewing my legs will give those who knew me another reason to grin or chuckle. And isn’t replacing tears with smiles the gift a departed loved one can bless you with to make an uncertain future a little less daunting and little easier to deal with?

You reach that stage in life where you are attending more funerals than weddings. And the former is why we have gathered today. We are here to say “Goodbye” to Dennis.

I don’t remember the actual moment I met Den, even though he had an imposing presence at 6’2”, two hundred plus pounds with a personality to match. It was probably during my freshman year in college at a mixer sponsored by the science department. Whenever it was, an immediate friendship was forged. Without any hesitation or effort, it morphed into a brotherhood lasting over forty years.

He was from New Hampshire; I was an Ohioan, so we had the shared desire of not pursuing a higher education on a campus requiring snow removal four months out of the year. Plus, although we both grew up landlocked, we had a kindred affinity for the ocean. Attending the University of Miami satisfied both these requirements.

After graduation, he got married and remained in South Florida. I was disillusioned and moved back North. But we remained in touch. Upon my return to Miami two years later, he and his wife welcomed me back with open arms like a prodigal son. We picked up where we left off without skipping a beat.

For however long you knew Dennis, whether a portion, a majority, or the entirety of your life, you were fortunate. The duration was irrelevant because his welcoming warmth never waned. Your days were brighter, which made your months fuller which meant your years were richer. Dennis elevated you. His impact was profound because he was genuine. He was a constant in a very inconsistent world. Den could have taught a MasterClass or given a TED speech on the fundamentals of being a great friend.

In Den you had an ally. He shared your triumphs without stealing the spotlight. He was a confidante who pulled you up without being judgmental. He’d give you an honest opinion or a differing viewpoint in a way that didn’t belittle you. And he knew things. He soaked up information on a variety of subjects. He’d have the answers to your questions, no matter how obscure the inquiry seemed. And if he didn’t know the answers, he’d make a point to find them for you. Dennis was Google before Google was Google.

He fully embraced life and sought experiences which he wanted to share with others. He led the way to adventures, whether off the beaten path or right into the thick of things. If anyone was hesitant, he encouraged/dragged them along because he knew good times were to be had. He was usually correct too, because there were enumerable good times. Much to your liver’s detriment, but good times, nonetheless.

I am eternally grateful for sharing so many years with him. Although our journey reached its conclusion, well before I would have liked, his treasured guidance remains. I can take comfort in knowing I’m the person I am today because of meeting Dennis.

Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain

like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze.

I try unifying them into something,

a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams

showcasing profound thoughts

that I feel are worthy of sharing

with strangers and sycophants,

maniacs and mentally sound,

downtrodden and dignitaries,

paupers and princesses

in hopes of making a lasting impression

that will forever change their lives.

But before unveiling my work to the world,

I scrutinize the stitching,

then question the pattern.

Thinking that it’s not good enough,

that it requires further alterations,

I tear apart the finished piece.

Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn,

reassembled

or recreated.

What was once coherent,

vibrant,

profound,

now lies in ruin.

These scraps of doubt then entomb me.

Unable to manipulate the fabric,

I remain immobilized

by a misguided attempt

to cover my perceived imperfections

and bury my profound neurosis

so my frail ego

will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.

How many stories need retelling

for this object to achieve sentimental value?

Does importance have an expiration date

that’s reached when no one’s left to gather in celebration?

How many years must elapse

before this object becomes a family heirloom?

Does perpetuating an affiliation to the past

become burdensome to those living in the present?

How many memories are required

to turn this mundane object into a cherished keepsake?

Does nostalgia become obsolete

after multiple generations are gone?

Is my legacy inevitably doomed

to suffer the same fate as this object?

I find it interesting that an “Inspiration” prompt with such a fast-approaching deadline has already garnered double-digit responses. Seems that being asked to describe why you’re uninspired has inspired so many to submit such quality writing. That’s reflective of the talent residing within each of you.

So, don’t think of it as being uninspired or creatively dulled or having writer’s block or experiencing composition constipation or any other euphemism. Think of it as you’ve just got to remember where you put that key to unlock your gift for writing. Because after reading these and other entries on The Prose, there’s a lot of creativity that has already been tapped into and on display.

That’s my two cents (or a nickel if a tariff is to be levied).

An hourglass measures time. Hence the “hour” part of its name. However, I view the connected glass bulbs differently. I see an hourglass as an analogy of our journey and what we gain from the world around us. Instead of the sand recording seconds, to me it represents the knowledge and opportunities which compose a meaningful life not just the eclipse of time.

When we are born, our hourglass is inverted. The top portion is the future that will reveal itself in an orderly fashion. The grains passing through the narrow opening are the present. Our world expands as ideas and experiences collect below. With so much open area to fill, initially the introduction of sand creates a seemingly random pattern. Like newborn babies, everything is bewildering. It’s a strange existence. But soon, the gathering sand begins filling the empty spaces. This forms our understanding. What was foreign and haphazard becomes identifiable and routine. Soon a conical shape appears. That is our past to be built upon.

Adolescence is when information is disseminated so rapidly, it buries what you were exposed to prior. The more sand compiled, the more overwhelming it seems and the higher the probability of getting frustrated. Wisdom is displaced by confusion. What’s relevant is brought back to the surface when the glass is shaken by concerned, external forces.

Teenagers can get anxious about the uncertainty of what has yet to be revealed. Only having a perspective from the inside looking up, they can’t grasp there’s more to come from above. They’re unaware of what is visible to those standing on the outside. Pre-adults don’t realize patience will be rewarded with awe-inspiring wonderment.

Maturity is reached when you’re accustomed to the rate of bombardment and can differentiate between what’s important and what should be ignored. At this stage, the pertinent sand reinforces the solid foundation underfoot. While trivial sand is left to fall by the wayside. With the accumulation comes more options. Digging deep into what’s at your disposal can be useful in creating something better.

Some who have achieved senior citizen status believe in the falsehood that their time will be done when there’s nothing left in the chamber above. They wonder at this juncture, why bother living? From my perspective though, that’s a fallacy because each of our glasses is much bigger than we imagine. The opportunity for learning never ceases and neither does the sand.

Plus, an hourglass beyond our scope of comprehension will reveal itself to us when the moment arises. And transitioning to that one will be Heavenly.

Let’s call it what it is. This is an assault on chocolate with the goal being its elimination. Nothing more, nothing less. It may sound far-fetched, but I formulated this theory by scrutinizing the rationale behind replacing Valentine’s Day with Friendship Day. Turns out, it doesn’t have anything to do with promoting “friendship.” Or preventing the terminally lonely from having their feelings hurt after being ghosted by Cupid for the umpteenth year in a row. Looking at all the facts, I turned over the final stone and unearthed the culprits behind this scheme.

With or without chocolate, I’ve always been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. When the only measure for a successful celebration is impressing just one other person, what could go wrong? Aiming at a target consisting of a solitary bullseye taking up your whole field of vision increases accuracy by like 100-fold. With minimal effort, who can’t be an Olympic marksman on Valentine’s Day?

And we would be stupid not to pick some random date in the middle of February to express our undying love to whoever is our plus-one at the time. What better way to break up the weeks between New Year’s and Arbor Day?

I also fervently subscribe to Valentine’s Day’s credo: Forced, sentimental materialism is key to a solid relationship. I willingly torpedoed my budget by maxing out my credit card on time-sensitive, overpriced meals along with flowers and spa days and jewelry that will be eaten or tossed or forgotten or pawned (when the relationship comes to its inevitable rocky conclusion). That’s fine.

These tasks were completed in anticipation my “loved one” would monetarily reciprocate in kind. Or God willing, equated The Cheesecake Factory, roses, a mani/pedi and earrings with foreplay, signaling spontaneous coitus. The accumulated receipts were offset by the chance I’d be culminating three and a half minutes of euphoric bliss before Sportscenter started. Six if I thought about the possibility the charges wouldn’t be posted on this month’s Visa’s statement. How is this bad?

The build-up to 2/14 isn’t protracted. That’s a bonus when you’re single. The implication that only couples can enjoy this special occasion isn’t shoved in your face for weeks prior like Christmas or my birthday. And the pain of not being an active participant in a Valentine’s Day lovefest subsides within 23 hours. Chocolates discounted up to 80%, even if in the shape of a heart, are the sutures that close my soul’s deep wounds. At reduced prices, when’s a better time to be Pro-Valentine’s?

It was the bargain-priced chocolate that brought everything into focus. That was the linchpin enabling me to wrap my head around who would benefit from introducing Friendship Day. Since GET RID OF CHOCOLATE couldn’t possibly be the #1 priority on Congress’ “To Do” list, the government was eliminated. There had to be another nefarious force spearheading the quest to abolish Valentine’s Day.

Proponents of Friendship Day would have to reap something from Valentine’s demise. Like all good sleuths, I followed the money which led me directly to Haribo and the Jelly Belly Jelly Company. It’s always the ones you least expect.

Here’s the rationale. Chocolate dominates Valentine’s Day sales. Gummy Bears and Jelly Belly jellybeans are tied for distant second. Destroying Valentine’s Day forces the sugar-craving public to seek other options for placating the milk chocolate monkey on its collective back. GB and JB will Pied Piper the downtrodden right to Friendship Day with its corresponding treats laden with elevated fructose levels. This guerrilla marketing results in a bigger piece of the moolah pie.

Although I’m impressed with the tactics employed, obviously inspired by Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War, I can’t idly sit by while a sinister plan to eradicate the beloved cacao bean is executed. My conscious (and sweet tooth) will not allow such a travesty. I am willing to risk my life or limb by unveiling the perpetrators.

It’s always about the Benjamins. And paper portraits of dead presidents are amassed by either crushing your competition or through a hostile takeover. Both are bad PR. It puts corporate greed in the spotlight and your company in the headlines. However, if a business does not appear to be involved with the competition fading from view, it doesn’t get its hands dirty. Wearing a clean cape of righteousness, it can come to the rescue by filling the void left behind. The company assumes the persona of a confectionary savior to those hurting. A genius Machiavellian strategy.

Corporations don’t want their consumer base to sour if profits skyrocket due to unscrupulous dealings. It needs to be more covert. Sure, the major grocery stores’ CEOs getting nondescript packages containing bits of multi-colored, crushed M&M shell sends a clear message. Such intimidation can even extend to getting Little Debbie and the Keebler Elves pulled from stores. But it’s bad optics.

Loyalists to Quicky, the Nesquik rabbit, will notice when he goes missing. Unvetted blogs pop up, raising awareness of his absence. A GoFundMe page starts. Rumors will swirl that some men in black suits forcibly hippity hopped Q’s furry butt to a cosmetic testing facility operated by Revlon or L’Oreal. That reflects poorly.

Nobody wants to know how many licks from a metal baton it takes to reach the middle of Mr. Owl’s skull. If he had abandoned his Tootsie Pop research when asked, he wouldn’t be tied up in the basement of some Hoboken stash house. He should have accepted the Avian Protection program offer. Now he’s getting fitted for concrete shoes. Could of, would of, should of doesn’t help.

And what about the disappearance of the two lobbyists from Big Chocolate last month? The media glossed over this. The only detail mentioned was they never rendezvoused for a scheduled meeting with their lawyer and the delegation from Lindt. Within two days, the story was buried, found only when scrolling through many pages. Chilling to think those two hard-working men were recipients of what I refer to as the KST (Karen Silkwood Treatment). Highly concerning.

But these tactics are very heavy-handed. Executing them will ensure the FBI will start snooping around. Much better for a business to come across as benevolent and bask in the afterglow of chocolate’s implosion.

And that’s how Friendship Day came about. I now fear Easter is on the chopping block. Someone should alert the Cadbury Bunny.